Pockets - Avik Sarkar

I keep words in my pockets—stuffed

together, scribbled on pieces

of lined paper, mingling with coins and

Trident wrappers, afraid of getting lost

in the wind, of being forgotten.


Sometimes I pull them out (haphazard,

less of an art than probability), and

weave together the words with thread

I pull from thamu’s shawls, with hyphens

in-between—each thought incomplete,

on the tip of my tongue—and


I craft lines in a language I no longer

remember, with syllables escaping

my mouth like the scratching

of nails—not the music I recall,

often nonsense—and


I reached into my pocket today, and

failed to find a word, all of them

gone, used, forgotten—and

I cried, silent.